Bella Luna
by Farfalla
Summary: Kirk wanders Sarek's mansion, searching for the missing pieces of a Spock who is revived but unwhole. This is slash but nonexplicit. I am Denethor! Flames do not scare me.


The Lady Amanda and I have one thing in common.

Scratch that--we have two things in common, but the other--and more important--thing cuts me too much to reflect on for more than a moment. She and I encourage each other that Spock, this new Spock so silent and confused, will remember his all too human love for us both. The part of me that has already--literally--cheated death believes it. But I've had two months of this exile on Vulcan to imagine an alternative fate.

--Which is why I prefer not to speculate, and focus my mental energies instead on that other world Amanda and I share, that is, the world of history. Her personal library is my solace and distraction.

I'm perversely amusing myself by reading about the private life of Alexander the Great. When his companion died, he shaved his head, cropped the manes of all the horses in his army, and crucified the doctor. Has this whole experience treated poor Bones any better?

I shouldn't be reading this, but I do feel an empathy for the depths of Alexander's grief.

The Vulcan healers have only returned to Spock that which is their domain--any memories locked within the more human parts of his experience are neither their business nor their preference to return, they have declared. And we are not to disturb his healing process, lest we cause false memory syndrome to emerge. He'll wake to them on his own, apparently, or not at all.

I've hovered around him for weeks, watching and waiting, barely feeling safe unless silent. Even then, I know my face must speak volumes. I never could hide my adoring gaze at my Vulcan. But he may as yet be too innocent or too Vulcan to read even old lovesick Jim Kirk.

Somewhere in the manor, I hear strains of the Moonlight Sonata being played.

On a lyre.

I spring to my feet, the bald widower of ancient Greece thumping in literary form to the carpet. It's Spock. He's remembered Beethoven--Ludwig van Beethoven, that emotional, untamable human of composers--he who moved music itself forward into the Romantic.

I hurry through the house, my excitement in ridiculous contrast to the poignant and solemn peace of the opening nocturne. I find him in the breakfast room, seated at a window bench. As if summoned by the title of the music--or rather, its nickname--T'Kuht casts a beam of light across his face, as if she were just outside listening in.

Mimicking her, I pause just short of entering. He finishes the piece as I watch quietly, enraptured. The music radiates both classical balance and subtly, yet deeply felt, longings and emotions.

Just like Spock. _My_ Spock.

He begins to play another tune, this one more cheerful and energetic. I step closer, yearning to know if what I'd noticed was real or just--moonlight.

When he sees me, he brings the song to a cadence and stops. "Good evening, Admiral. I hope I am not disturbing you." His face is a new moon. He remembers nothing.

I blink a few times, assimilating my disappointment. "No--not at all," I tell him. "Your playing is excellent."

"Today on Earth is December 16," he says. "The birthday of your Ludwig van Beethoven. I thought it would be appropriate to practice some of his works."

Well, he's remembered _something_ human. It isn't love, and it isn't us, but it's something.

"Good idea, Spock. Don't let me keep you from what you were doing." I sit down on one of the chairs at the table, and he continues the tune.

His memory returns, but slowly. How long will it take before I see the familiar, missed look of impish mischief again? How long before I am permitted to hold those long fingers against my lips, they that now stroke only the lyre as once they stroked my shoulders after a backbreaking mission? And will I be allowed to see him by then anyway, before Starfleet sets me on fire?

I would have clapped when Spock finishes the cheerful tune, but I sense that in his present state this would make him self-conscious. He doesn't want an audience--he is practicing. Not just at music, I realize, but at being alive.

I seek him out along our very first routes of connection--conversation. "What--which piece was that? I didn't recognize it."

"Beethoven wrote only one opera," says Spock. "This piece was his third attempt at an overture for the opera, and it is therefore known as Leonore #3. Incidentally, he was still unsatisfied and wrote yet another overture--and renamed the opera. The final version is called 'Fidelio'."

Good, I think to myself. I've got him talking. How I've craved his conversation these past months! "What's 'Fidelio' about?"

"'Fidelio' is the story of a fictional woman named Leonore who lives in eighteenth century Spain," he explains. "Her husband, Florestan, is a political prisoner of a corrupt government, and is condemned to death. She risks everything to bring her husband back alive."

I freeze, and stare into his eyes, searching. After ten seconds I realize my mouth is open, and shut it hastily.

"Excuse me, Admiral--I must attend to my evening meditation." Without a meaningful glance in my direction, he stands and carries the lyre--and my heart--out of the room.

i walk towards the window, and gaze out upon sleeping Shikahr. I cradle my hope carefully, protectively. It is still there--the memories, the love--he just cannot read it even within his own self.

Up in the sky, the full, round face of the celestial body they call T'Kuht bids me a silent welcome. Spock once told me that Vulcan had no moon, yet here she flies. A matter of astronomical syntax, perhaps.

Moon-- "Sister planet" -- "Bondmate to Vulcan"--

Whatever she is, or what she is called, one thing is definite.

She is here--and I am glad of it.


End file.
